by Bree Baker
I formed an “okay” sign with my fingers and winked. “Give me just a quick minute, and I’ll get that over here for you.”
I strode back to the counter, practically vibrating with excitement. After only a month in business, each customer’s order was still a thrill for me.
The seashell wind chimes kicked into gear again and I responded on instinct. “Welcome to Sun, Sand, and Tea.” I turned on my toes for a look at the newest guest and my stomach dropped. “Oh, hello, Mr. Paine.” I shot a warning look at Sam, whose head drooped lower over his tea.
“Miss Swan.” Mr. Paine straddled a stool three seats down from Sam and set his straw porkpie hat on the counter. Tufts of white hair stretched east and west from the spaces below his bald spot and above each ear. “Lovely day.”
I nodded in acknowledgment. “Can I get you anything?”
“Please,” he drawled, giving Sam a thorough once-over. It wasn’t clear if he already knew Sam was mad at him, or if he was figuring that out from the silent treatment.
I waited, knowing what the next words out of Mr. Paine’s mouth were going to be.
Reluctantly, he pulled his attention back to me. “How about a list of all your ingredients?”
Sam rolled his small brown eyes, but otherwise continued to ignore Mr. Paine’s presence.
I grabbed a knife and a loaf of fresh-baked bread and set them on the counter. “You know I can’t give that to you, Mr. Paine. Something else, perhaps?” I’d been through this a dozen times with him since Sun, Sand, and Tea’s soft opening. Swan women had guarded our tea recipes for a hundred years, and I wasn’t about to hand them over just because he said so. “How about a glass of tea instead?”
I cut two thin slices from the loaf, then whacked the crusts off with unnecessary oomph.
Sam took a long pull on his drink, stopping only when there was nothing left but ice, and returned the jar to the counter with a thump. “It’s very good,” he said, turning to stare at Mr. Paine. “You should try it. I mean, if you’d had it your way, this place wouldn’t even be open, right? Seems like the least you can do is find out what you were protesting.”
I didn’t bother to mention that Mr. Paine had already tried basically every item on the menu as I plied him with free samples to try to get in his good graces.
Mr. Paine frowned, first at Sam, then at me. Wrinkles raced across his pale, sun-spotted face. “It’s a health and safety issue,” he groused. “People need to know what they’re drinking.”
“Yes.” I arranged cucumber slices on one piece of bread. “I believe you’ve mentioned that.” It had, in fact, been his number one argument since I’d gotten the green light to open. “I’m happy to provide a general list of ingredients for each recipe, but there are certain herbs and spices, as well as brewing methods, that are trade secrets.”
“He doesn’t care about any of that,” Sam said. “He just wants to get his way.”
Mr. Paine twisted on his stool to glare at Sam. “Whatever your problem is, Sam Smart, it’s not with me, so stow it.”
Sam shoved off his stool. “And your problem isn’t with her.” He grabbed the gray suit jacket from the stool beside him and threaded his arms into the sleeves. “Thanks for the tea, Everly.” He tossed a handful of dollar bills onto the counter and a remorseful look in my direction.
I worked to close my slack jaw as the front door slapped shut behind him. Whatever grudge match Sam and Mr. Paine had going, I didn’t want a ticket for it. I put the unused cucumber slices away and removed a white ceramic bowl from the fridge.
Mr. Paine watched carefully, teeth clenched.
“Maybe you’d like to try the Peach Tea today,” I suggested. “Whatever you want. On the house.”
Preferably to go.
“How much sugar is in the Peach?” he asked, apparently determined to criticize. “You know I don’t like a lot of sugar.”
I pointed to a brightly colored section on my menu that highlighted sugar-free options. “How about a tea made with alternative sweeteners, like honey or fruit puree? Maybe the Iced Peach with Ginger?” I turned to the refrigerator and pulled out a large metal bowl, then scooped the cream cheese, mayo, and seasoning mixture onto the second bread slice, turning it face down over the cucumbers. “There’s no sugar in that at all.”
“Fine.” He lifted his fingers in defeat, as usual, pretending to give up but knowing full well he’d be back tomorrow with the same game.
I had quit hoping he’d start paying for his orders two weeks ago. That was never going to happen, and I had decided to chalk the minimal expense up to community relations and let it go. Though if he kept walking off with my shop’s canning jars, he’d soon have a full set—and those weren’t cheap.
“Great.” I released a long breath and poured a jar of naturally sweetened peach tea for him. He was lucky I didn’t serve it in a disposable cup.
“What’s in it?” he asked.
“Peaches. Tea.” I rocked my knife through the sandwich, making four small crustless triangles.
“And?” Mr. Paine lifted the tea to his mouth, closed his eyes, and gulped before returning the half-empty jar to his napkin. He smacked his lips. “Tastes like sugar.”
“No,” I assured him. “There’s no sugar in that.” I plated the crisp cucumber sandwiches, then poured the ladies’ mint and cranberry teas, grateful that they were too busy ogling Lou out the window to notice the delay. “Fresh peaches, honey, ginger, lemon, and spices. That’s it.”
I knew what my tea really tasted like to him: defeat. He’d tried to stop me from opening Sun, Sand, and Tea because businesses on the beach were “cliché and overdone.” According to Mr. Paine, if I opened a café in my home, Charm, North Carolina, would become a tourist trap and ruin everything he lived for.
Fortunately, the property was old enough to have been zoned commercial before Paine’s time on the town council. Built at the turn of the nineteenth century, my home had been a private residence at first, then a number of other businesses ranging from a boarding house to a prep school, and if the rumors were true, possibly a brothel. Though, I couldn’t imagine anything so salacious ever having existed in Charm. The town was simply too…charming. And according to my great aunts, who’d been fixtures here since the Great Depression, it had always been that way.
The place was empty when I bought it. The previous owner lived out of town, but he’d sent a number of work crews to make renovations over the years. I could only imagine the money that had been slowly swallowed by the efforts. Eventually it went back on the market.
Mr. Paine eyeballed his drink and rocked the jar from side to side. “I don’t see why you won’t provide the complete list of your ingredients. What’s the big secret?”
“I’m not keeping a secret. The recipes are private. I don’t want them out in the world.” I wet my lips and tried another explanation, one he might better understand. “These recipes are part of my family’s lineage. Our history and legacy.” I let my native drawl carry the words. Paine of all people should appreciate an effort to keep things as they were, to respect the past.
He harrumphed. “I’m bringing the ingredient list up at our next council meeting. I’m sure Mayor Dunfree and the other members will agree with me that it’s irresponsible not to have it posted.”
“Great.” He never seemed to tire of reminding me how tight he was with the mayor. He’d used their relationship to the fullest while trying to keep my shop from opening, but even the mayor couldn’t prevent a legitimate business from being run in a commercially zoned space. I refilled Mr. Paine’s jar, which had been emptied rather quickly. “Let me know if there’s anything else you’d like to try.”
Mr. Paine climbed off his stool and stuffed his goofy hat back on his mostly bald head. “Just the tea,” he said with unnecessary flourish.
“See ya.” I piled the ladies’ teas and
sandwich on a tray and waved Paine off. “Try not to choke on an ice cube,” I muttered.
Live and Let Chai
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About the Author
Bree Baker is a mystery-loving daydreamer who got into the storytelling business at a very young age, much to the dismay of her parents and teachers. A few decades later, no one seems surprised that she’s made a career of it. According to Bree’s husband and three saucy children, she’s never short on words or imagination and can’t seem to use one without the other. Her favorite tales involve the sea, intrigue and honor, humor and heart. Bree Baker is a member of Sisters in Crime, International Thriller Writers, and Romance Writers of America. You can learn more about Bree and her books at breebaker.com.
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